Made Only From Rags
by littlelindentree
Summary: When Tyra was eight years old, her mother took a sewing class on Wednesday evenings at the Dillon Community Centre, with the idea that they could save money by making some of their own clothes. Pre-series.


This takes place pre-series, and was written for Cliche Bingo on LJ, for the "relative values: families" prompt. The title comes from the song "Coat of Many Colours" by Dolly Parton.

***

When Tyra was eight years old, her mother took a sewing class on Wednesday evenings at the Dillon Community Centre, with the idea that they could save money by making some of their own clothes. The rigs west of Dillon had shut down the year before, leaving Tyra's father and a lot of other men like him out of work. He was staying with his brother in Dallas, trying to get work, and he hadn't been home in months.

Angela stood in their kitchen and excitedly explained her plan to her daughters, that she'd buy fabric from the store on 7th Street, and that there was a gal at work whose mother was looking to sell her old Singer sewing machine for cheap. Just like in the old days, she said, explaining that she had always worn homemade clothes when she was a little girl.

Mindy, at fifteen, merely rolled her eyes and scoffed at her mother before snapping her gum and wandering off down the hallway to her bedroom. Angela turned to her younger daughter.

"What do you think, baby?"

Tyra observed her mother's hopeful face, and pursed her lips.

"Will you make me a purple dress?" she asked.

"Of course I will!" Angela exclaimed, bending down and enfolding Tyra in her arms. Tyra hugged her back, burying her face in her mother's curls and inhaling that perfect, unique Mama smell. She imagined herself in a long, flowing purple gown all edged in sequins and little glittering stones, and maybe a tiara and one of those sticks covered in diamonds that princesses always carry in their hands.

"Princesses always carry those," she muttered. Angela laughed.

"My baby's such a funny girl," she said, kissing Tyra's face.

The day she brought the sewing machine home, Tyra was practically beside herself with excitement. She watched with rapt attention as her mother placed it in a corner of the living room and set it up, beaming all the while.

"What are you gonna make first, Mama?"

"I don't know, sweetie! I guess we'll just have to head on down to the fabric store and find something _fun_!"

Tyra thought she wouldn't be able to wait, but she had to. Weeks passed, and they didn't go to the fabric store, and the sewing machine was soon draped in laundry instead of shining folds of soft purple fabric.

Tyra asked her mother about her dress every day, but every day she would just smile brightly or sigh and say, "Not now, honey."

Then one day Mama got a letter. She spent three days curled up in bed with it, crying mascara all over her pillow. Tyra stood in the doorway, watching her sleep. Mindy came up behind her and crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the doorframe.

"Why's Mama sleeping so much?" Tyra asked, looking up at her sister.

Mindy shrugged. "She's sad, little sis. I don't think Daddy's coming back."

"Oh," Tyra replied, frowning. "Is she still gonna make my dress?"

Mindy looked down at Tyra, chewing her gum harshly. Her eyes were soft. "Come on," she said, taking Tyra's hand and leading her to their bedroom. She grabbed a pair of scissors off the dresser and turned her back on Tyra, digging through the heaps of shoes and bags and clothing on the floor.

When Mindy turned around, she held an old purple t-shirt with the arms and the neck hole snipped to show more skin and turn it into a strange, dress-like smock. She motioned for Tyra to come closer. Tyra jumped over Mindy's bed, yanking her clothes off as she went. She stood still as Mindy pulled the t-shirt over her head, securing the slack around Tyra's skinny body with a few well-placed safety pins and an old black patent belt.

"There," Mindy declared. "How's that?"

Tyra ran around the bed to look at herself in the mirror on the back of the door. It wasn't quite what she had imagined, but the belt gathered the fabric just so that her skirt had a little bit of swirl in it. She swayed back and forth, watching the fabric flow back and forth across her legs. She smiled. It was_ perfect_.

"I love it," she said, smiling up at her sister.

"Good," Mindy replied. "We're gonna be late for the bus, let's go."

Tyra was so excited to show off her dress, she could barely sit still. She kept fidgeting during the whole ride to school, unable to stop even when Mindy threatened to pinch her.

The bus let Mindy off at the high school, and Tyra waved enthusiastically at her sister's back as the bus pulled away and Mindy ducked around the school and headed for the parking lot.

When Tyra arrived at the elementary school, she dashed down the hallway to her classroom, oblivious to the teachers' raised eyebrows behind her.

She joined the other children filing into the classroom, ignoring the giggles that greeted her.

They went through their morning routine, and Tyra sat down at the table she shared with four of her classmates.

"Psst – Tyra!" It was Kelly McGrady, who sat across from Tyra. Kelly's father worked for the county and wore a suit every day. She knew this because he used to come by the house and take her Mama out for coffee, and that's when Mindy would let Tyra try on her clothes and make-up and they'd eat icing right out of the can for dinner.

"What?" Tyra whispered back.

"Jenny and I were wondering," she said, elbowing the silent girl sitting next to her, who frowned, looking uncomfortable. "Did your mom pay for your clothes with food stamps?"

Tyra gaped at Kelly, sensing that she was being insulted, but unsure how to respond.

"Shut up, McGrody," came a voice. It was Timmy Riggins, who sat beside her.

"_You_ shut up," Kelly sneered, turning away to look back at the front of the classroom. "You're just as disgusting."

"Thanks," Tyra mumbled to Timmy. He shrugged and looked down at the empty table in front of him.

At recess, Tyra was about to run outside to play with the others when Miss Cosby, her teacher, took her aside.

"Tyra, did you dress yourself this morning?" Miss Cosby asked, her thin eyebrows drawing together in a frown.

"Yup," Tyra declared proudly. She resisted the urge to twirl and bow and show off her dress, but only just.

"Oh, honey," Miss Cosby scolded gently, shaking her head. "You're just a mess, sweetie. You can't wear that to school."

"Why not?" Tyra asked, glancing down at herself with a frown. "This is my princess dress."

"It's an old rag, sweetie. No, I'm sorry. It just isn't right. I'd better call your mother to come get you."

Miss Cosby reached down to take Tyra's hand, but Tyra wrenched her arm away.

"No!" she shouted. "You're just jealous 'cause your mama never made _you_ a princess dress!"

Tyra turned and ran down the hallway, the wooden doors of all the classrooms blurring as her eyes filled with tears. She burst out of the school and kept running until her lungs burned and her legs ached. She slowed to a walk and soon found herself at a playground on the corner of two quiet streets lined with houses. They were funny houses, though; they had lush green lawns and they were dotted with pretty flowers and bushes. There were no old cars or tires or lines of laundry in these yards.

Frowning, Tyra swiped fitfully at the tears still dampening her cheeks, and turned into the park. She went and sat on one of the swings, dragging her feet glumly through the sand.

She had no idea how long she sat there, idly pushing herself to and fro, but eventually she got bored and wandered back to school. The whole way back she walked down the sidewalk, carefully hopping over every crack, and thought it was strange that no one had come after her. She'd left school, walked right out of there, and nothing bad happened.

Tyra shrugged to herself, swinging her arms. Next time someone teased her, she was going to shove them face first into a mud puddle, then go to the park. Holding her head high with a big smile on her face, she walked into the schoolyard.

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe she could just do whatever she wanted.


End file.
